The Man That Never Was
by wikiaddicted723
Summary: "She likes him, this stranger, this unusual man." Post 4x11


A/N: I know this is short, and probably not very significant, but I wanted to write _something. _Hopefully you'll get some enjoyment out of it :)

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><p>"Thank you," he'd said, with the briefest nod of his head as he walked out the door. He hadn't even looked at her.<p>

Olivia doesn't know why this bothers her so, in the darkness of a well worn apartment that nonetheless has never felt quite like home, doesn't know why she had been expecting appraisal or perhaps mere recognition, why she pays attention to the way he carries himself, his back ram – rod straight and legs firm on the ground, always alert, as if ready to bolt at the slightest of provocations. Skittish.

She's curious about him that much she understands, that much she's willing to admit even to herself. But she's not used to this gnawing feeling at the bottom of her sternum, this tingling, this burn that is oh, so similar to anxious foreboding, this maddening rustle in the back of her skull that whispers of something she's missing, something that's right in front her but that seems to escape her, eluding her even in the most thorough of searches.

He's nothing but a stranger; an apparition made flesh, a blimp in her already splintered reality. He is infinite possibility made flesh, a man that could have been. Someone that _is,_ in another, she guesses more pleasant version of the world she lives in (and aren't they all? All those other worlds, all those other Olivias that seem to always be better off?), her partner by choice instead of chance and hopeless necessity.

He's nothing but a stranger, a rare and fleeting commodity, and he seems determined to keep it so with curt nods and shortened, over – the – surface responses. He shares bits and pieces of his own private world sometimes, just enough so that she knows his reality, and never a drop more than he feels needs to be told, like a peek into someplace solid and safe and warm (something that calls to her and leaves her magnetized, crackling in the very air that surrounds her) waiting at the bottom of his knowing blue eyes. Eyes that darken and retreat into themselves a little more every day, as does he.

It's almost obsessive, the way he works and thinks and pores over senseless sketches and blueprints with a bullheaded single-mindedness that rivals that of the only madman she knows, his surrogate father. It makes her think that it must be something painful, to be left behind in a world where nobody knows you, where no one will look at you with that spark of recognition that signals belonging, that defines existence itself, and identity. Painful, like a mirage in the desert, the promise of water that is never fulfilled.

More disquieting is the way in which he's unwittingly and irremediably fitted himself into the twisted pattern of their lives, with seamlessness uncharacteristic of human endeavors, like nature itself put him there. It scares and intrigues her, the way he seems to fit at her side, always a little behind, poised as if ready to catch if she falls. She can tell it makes him uneasy, this ease with which they seem to work hand in hand, this push – pull that is almost familiar, like the bitter aftertaste of sugarless coffee on the back her throat or the remnants of a dream upon waking, when it is all so fresh and so real that it might as well be the truth, and this world of wakefulness naught but a construct of fragmented nightmares made flesh.

She sees the way he restrains himself, day by day, how he no longer looks at her more than he needs to, how he makes sure to keep a measure of distance between them wherever they walk, too mindful of her personal space for someone that seemed intent on invading it at every possible chance not a month ago, like he's somehow afraid of her, or so disgusted that he can't help himself.

Olivia is not yet sure if he does it because she's too different from the person he knows, that other woman he loves a timeline ago, or because she's just too close to her for him to ever be comfortable. She _is_ sure, though, that no one had ever looked at her the way he had – with wonder and raw feeling, warmth without a name – when he still thought he was in the right place, at the wrong time. It makes her ache, for she's never known such a thing.

The mere memory stands the hair on her nape on end, and makes her swallow a larger – than – necessary gulp of whiskey from the tumbler that still grazes her hand, her only companion on this cold and rainy spring night. She's never liked that much attention, but she can't deny that – even if it made her uncomfortable – it had felt nice to be looked at with something other than the thinly veiled disdain of the general male population towards women in uniform that she's known her whole life. She almost wishes, selfishly, that he'd look at her again, just like that. Almost, but not quite. She herself knows a little of loss and regret, and not so little of despair, she knows what it feels like to be caged, trapped in a strange place, against your will, against all hope. She won't add weight to the load that bends his back, uses up his strength.

Peter Bishop is a man she wishes she'd known, someone she's sure she would've liked to have around, if only to feel less alone in the confines of her skin. He's the man that never was; in a world that makes as much sense as light to a blind man.

She likes him, though she does not know him, she likes him.


End file.
